The Iron Angel

by Edward D. Hoch

  Captain Segar pondered the information as he drove. “Why do you expect more violence?”

  “The so called treasure, if it really exists at all, must be worth a large fortune. Even my fellow Gypsies are not above killing for money, and now that blood has been spilled more may follow. The ideas of the festival bothered me from the beginning. Why not assemble only the five? Why bring in five hundred?”

  They’d driven through most of the night stopping only to sleep for a few hours along the road. Now, as the first gentle streaks of dawn appeared in the east, Segar rounded a bend in the road and saw in the distance the first wagons of the Gypsy encampment. “We’re here,” he told Michael.

  Many of the Gypsies had come in campers and house trailers but a surprising number of traditional horse drawn wagons were in evidence too. Though it was barely dawn there was evidence of activity at the camp. Fires were going and breakfast was being prepared.

  “They’re setting up the fortune telling booths already,” Segar observed.

  “It is their livelihood after all,” said Michael.

  They parked the car off the road and strolled among the campers, several of whom shouted greetings to Michael. Even over breakfast some of the men were playing cards, betting small amounts of money on Austrian tarot or American poker, sometimes mixing English phrases with their Romany speech. Near one of the wagons a young Gypsy was practicing on his violin.

  “There will be music and dancing,” Michael said, “and card games and fortune telling – all designed to separate the local people from their money in one way or another.” He led the way to a large mobile home at the back of the encampment. A woman opened the door as they approached and Captain Segar recognized the Gypsy who’d delivered the message to Michael in Bucharest. She was more attractive close up than he’d first supposed. A single golden earring through her left lobe balanced a cascade of black hair on the right side of her head.

  “Ah, Livia! You’re done up in fine style for the townsfolk.”

  “Thank you,” she told Michael with a smile. “Will you stay to see my dance?”

  “That depends on your father.”

  She escorted them into the vehicle where a grey-haired Gypsy sat across the table from a younger man in traditional farmer’s overalls. The Gypsy rose smiling to welcome Michael. “I was afraid you would not come, Michael. We need your sage advice. But you have brought someone with you.”

  “Konrad, this is Captain Segar, a friend and traveling companion.”

  “A captain of police?”

  “He is on holiday. Captain, this is Konrad Zuloaga, a king much beloved by his people.”

  Zuloaga in turn introduced his guest. “Rudolph Fuhl who has the farm across the road.”

  Fuhl, a man in his thirties, shook hands with a powerful grip. “I was surprised to see so many vehicles arriving during the night. When King Zuloaga wrote me of this gathering. I understood only five Gypsies and their families would attend.”

  “It has turned into a festival,” Zuloaga acknowledged. “We will be gone by Monday and the countryside will be peaceful once more. In the meantime, bring your family and enjoy it.”

  “Is this your property?” Michael asked the farmer.

  “It’s state property. All this area belonged to a great uncle named Prando during the war. He was killed in a bombing raid and the state seized it. My father was allowed to keep farming his portion across the road. Of course, all arable land was nationalized in nineteen sixty-two, so now I have only a half-acre plot for private use.”

  Michael nodded. “Such is the case in Gravita as well. But if this is state property why are you concerned?”

  “There will be trouble and the authorities will come. There is always trouble when there are Gypsies.”

  “There will be no trouble,” Konrad Zuloaga assured him. “You have my word for it. Livia, escort Mr. Fuhl to the road.” Then, perhaps aware of the suddenness of the dismissal, he repeated, “Bring your family over later for the festival, Mr. Fuhl. I’m sure they will enjoy it.”

  “Thank you,” the farmer said. “I might do that.”

  When they were alone, Zuloaga relaxed a bit and turned to Michael. “I feel better with you here. The four are meeting this afternoon to compare clues to the treasurer’s location. After the killing of Greystone, I fear what might happen.”

  “Was his clue to the treasure taken from him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You still have yours?”

  “Of course. For more than forty years I have guarded it.”

  “You and your brother. A third keeper of the secret, the crippled Gypsy, one-eyed Heron, died of natural causes more than a decade ago.”

  Zuloaga nodded. “His son Radu is here with that portion of the secret.”

  “And the other two?”

  “Kings in their own right – old Cuza of the Wanderers and a man who should be king, the English Gypsy, Reynard.”

  “I have heard of Reynard but never met him,” Michael said.

  “Some find him too sly, too disdainful of the old Gypsy customs but he has kept the secret for all these years along with the others. We were only five boys at the time, some of us still in our teens, and the secret given to us changed our lives. I would say that old Cuza is a king today because he was one of the treasure’s guardians. Perhaps that is true of me as well.”

  “The five of you were chosen at random?”

  “Young men were picked who might have a chance of escaping the Nazi roundup by fleeing cross country. It was a wise choice, obviously, since four of us made good our escape. Heron was caught by the Nazis near the Swiss border and brutally treated. His experience in the camps left him a one-eyed cripple, but he survived. After the war, he married a Gypsy woman he’d met in the camp and fathered Radu. The treasure clue passed to Radu when his father died.”

  “He was able to keep the clue with him all through the camps?”

  “By its very nature it is easily hidden,” Konrad Zuloaga said. “You will see soon enough. I want you to be here this afternoon at two o’clock.” He glanced at Captain Segar. “Your friend too, if you wish.”

  Michael nodded. “I do wish. Captain Segar is a man of the law, but one who respects the way of the Gypsy.”

  “Bring him then.”

  “You believe the killer of your brother will be among those present?”

  “It is possible.”

  Livia returned from escorting Fuhl out of the encampment. She was laughing and full of high spirits. “Everything is ready for the festival.”

  “The farmer is gone?”

  She nodded. “He is so frightened of our people! He thought one of Cuza’s daughters gave him the evil eye.” The thought made her laugh anew.

  “Captain Segar and I will be leaving now,” Michael said. “We will return at two o’clock.”

  Some people from the city had already driven out for the festival, though the hour was early. The fortune-telling booths were attracting the largest crowd but some of the men had already strolled over to watch the Gypsy dancers. “King Zuloaga seems so stern and dignified,” Segar observed, “yet we step out of his trailer and see all this.”

  “There are many tribes represented here. Some still relish the old Gypsy ways. We should enjoy it while it lasts – the tide of history is running against the wanderer.”

  They strolled past dark-skinned women in colorful scarves, past gambling games and tarot readings. The music of the Gypsy violins grew louder and seemed to drive the last morning clouds from the sky. With the sun came a warmth more like August than November. “A beautiful day, Michael,” said Segar.

  “It is.” He paused at the edge of the encampment to study a weathered barn some hundred yards away. “That barn is all that remains of the original Prando farm. You can see the remains of the house foundation nearby. When the Gypsies met here in the early days of the war, it would have been a thriving farm.”

  “How do you know the Nazis never found the treasure?�
��

  “Someone would have known. It wasn’t the sort of thing the Nazis would keep secret. More likely, they would have announced it as a great triumph over our people.”

  “More to the point, how are you so certain there ever was a treasure?”

  Michael shook his head. “When a Gypsy tells another Gypsy there is a treasure you can be sure of it. We may lie to outsiders, but not among ourselves. The Gypsy code is very strict. Livia, the king’s daughter, was married once. Her husband divorced her for sleeping with another man. Under Gypsy law, he could have killed her. Yet if she had taken money from her lover it would not have been considered adultery.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Another example – Gypsy children are never beaten by their parents. It is considered a greater crime to beat one’s children than to beat one’s parents –”

  Someone called Michaels name and they were joined by a rough-looking man in his thirties. He had a knife scar on one cheek and an insolent manner that Segar disliked at once. “Michael, you have surely lowered yourself to attend our festival! What bring you all the way from Gravita?”

  “Hello, Radu. This is Captain Segar, my friend.”

  “You travel with the police these days?”

  “When necessary. You are here to do your father’s duty?”

  The man’s face twisted into a humorless grin. “I am here to claim his share of the treasure.”

  “The treasure came from all of us. It belongs to all of us.”

  “Oh no – not my father’s share. He was tortured by the Nazis and managed to survive. But his life was crippled and shortened by the experience. I am owed his share of this treasure and Konrad Zuloaga will not keep it from me.”

  “We have to find it first,” Michael reminded him.

  “It will be found.” Radu started away.

  “This afternoon will tell,” Michael said.

  When they’d walked on, Segar commented. “A disagreeable man. He is Radu Heron, possessor of his father’s share of the secret?”

  “Correct. Of the secret, not of the treasure.”

  Captain Segar spotted Livia running through the crowd, pausing to joke with one of the violin players. “You said her husband divorced her for adultery. Is he here today?”

  “You have just met him,” Michael replied. “She was married to Radu Heron. It was her lover who gave Radu that scar, before Radu killed him.”

  Toward noon, they decided to eat and Segar followed Michael to a modern camping vehicle of British manufacture. The man they met there was unlike any of the other Gypsies Segar knew. Tall and slim, he had the look of a handsome, suntanned Englishman the sort Segar imagined one met at polo matches. It was only when Reynard spoke that a trace of his Gypsy heritage surfaced.

  “Captain Segar – so pleased to meet you! Back in England some of my best friends are members of the police. I look forward to chatting with you after the day’s business is completed.”

  He had traveled to Oradea with a blonde Englishwoman somewhat younger than his sixty-odd years. Her name was Charlotte and she kept to the background, casting occasional apprehensive looks in Segar’s direction. Michael had never met Reynard before but each of them knew the other. Unlike Zuloaga and old Cuza, Reynard had not aspired to a kingship among the Gypsies. He had become another person, of another tribe, and he made it clear that this visit back to his past was not pleasant for him.

  “Have you seen Cuza?” Michael asked. “Or Konrad Zuloaga? The son of Heron is here, too.”

  “These are but names from the past to me, Michael. Charlotte and I have a different life in England. I do not live as a Gypsy there.” He smiled a bit. “Except perhaps for a weekend’s camping.”

  Charlotte served a light lunch of food they’d brought with them. There was no trace of Gypsy cuisine here, only traditional British dishes. Segar found the lunch appetizing enough, if a trifle bland for his taste. After they’d finished, Michael took his leave. “You’ll be at Zuloag’s at two?”

  “I’ll be there,” Reynard assured them. “And once I’m rid of my part in this confounded secret, the rest of you can keep the treasure or do whatever you want with it.”

  They left the camper and continued on across the encampment toward Zuloaga’s mobile home. There were more townspeople now, strolling among the trucks and wagons, stopping to admire a horse or buy a scarf or wager a few lei on a game of chance. Segar could merely shake his head. “The local police should be here. There’s thievery all around us.”

  “Remember you’re on a holiday,” Michael chided him.

  “Are we going to see the other one now? Old Cuza?”

  “It’s getting close to two o’clock. We’ll see him at the meeting.”

  Livia poured six goblets of wine for the group and then vanished into a bedroom as Radu Heron and Reynard arrived. They sat at a round table with Konrad Zuloaga while Michael and Segar took seats to one side. “What is the policeman doing here?” Radu wanted to know, scowling at Segar across the table.

  “He’s here at my request,” Zuloaga said. “My brother is dead, possibly because of the treasure. I want no more killing here.”

  “A body guard for a Gypsy king!” Radu scoffed. “When I am king, I will defend myself.”

  “I forgive your tongue,” Zuloaga told him, “because your father suffered for his people.”

  Reynard was restless. “Where is old Cuza?” he asked. “Let’s get this business behind us.”

  “Cuza is an ill man,” Zuloaga said. “He was the oldest of us back then, you’ll remember. The oldest of the five. I visited him for lunch and he gave me his share of the secret, in this envelope, in case he is not able to attend. His daughters are caring for him.”

  Their eyes went to the envelope Konrad Zuloaga held in his hand. “Let’s get on with it, then,” Reynard insisted, reaching into his own pocket. “Here’s my portion.” He tossed a worn playing card onto the table. It was the eight of hearts, and across the face of it was written in faded ink the words Prando Farm, Oradea.

  “Interesting,” Zuloaga commented. “It is the card for thoughts of marriage in fortune telling.” He opened the envelope by ripping one end of it. “Here is Cuza’s contribution.”

  It was another playing card, the eight of clubs.

  “An accident,” Michael said softly from the sidelines giving the Gypsy meaning.

  Konrad Zuloaga nodded. “And my card – the eight of diamonds. It suggests a jewel.”

  They sat staring at the three eights. All the cards were from the same deck, with a faded Albanian flag on the back, its black two-headed eagle poised against a red background. And all had the words Prando Farm, Oradea scrawled across the face of the card in the same handwriting.

  “That was our father,” Konrad said, noting Michael’s perusal of the cards. “It was a deck he always carried with him. We sat in this very field as he chose my brother and me and Reynard and Heron and Cuza. He wrote that on each of the cards he chose without letting any of us see the other’s cards. He told us to travel far and always keep the card with us because when we were reunited they would tell us the location of the Gypsy treasure.”

  All eyes were on Radu Heron now, and Michael said, “Show us your father’s card. Radu. Show us the fourth eight.”

  Radu spit on the floor and tossed his card onto the table. It had been folded twice, apparently so it could be hidden in a small space. But it was not the eight of spades everyone expected.

  It was the six of diamonds.

  “Beware of speculation,” Konrad Zuloaga said with a chuckle. “A card with a special meaning to a spectator like Michael.”

  “I guessed wrong,” Michael admitted.

  “Three eights and a six,” Reynard said. “Most interesting. But what about the fifth card?”

  “My brother had it with him when he was killed,” Konrad replied. “His murderer took it.”

  “It might not be three eights and a six at all,” Michael pointed out. “It could be two di
amonds, a heart and a club.”

  “Do you wish to deduce its meaning?” Konrad challenged.

  “That’s difficult without the fifth card, especially since the geographic features of the farm might have changed in forty years. But two of you were here then. Tell me about this place, Reynard and Konrad.”

  It was Reynard who answered first. “I remember a big farm, well equipped for its time. You can still see the foundation where the main house stood. There was the barn, and a horse barn, and some other buildings. A silo. I remember especially a huge old oak tree that stood in a far corner of the field marking one corner of the boundary. The farm was bigger then on both sides of the road, and more than a dozen Gypsies worked here. Even then, they settled down and stopped wandering like many Gypsies of Eastern Europe.”

  Konrad Zuloaga took up the story. “It was my father who gathered up the gold and jewelry when we saw what was happening to the Gypsies. There was a great deal of it. I remember it filling half the back of a truck. We never saw what they did with it, but it was hidden somewhere on this farm. And the clues were given to the five of us. We were never to show each other our cards until all of us had gathered here again. That was to take more than forty years for a variety of reasons.”

  “Your father must have felt that the hiding place of the treasure would become obvious once the five playing cards were seen together,” Michael said.

  “But we need the fifth card,” Radu insisted. “These four mean nothing by themselves.”

  Reynard cleared his throat. “They may mean less than nothing. Have you considered the possibility that one of us may have substituted a fake card for the real one?”

  “What would that gain?” Michael asked.

  “One of us would know the true location of the treasure while the others were kept in the dark. One of us could come and steal it away.”

  “The treasure is for the common good of all Rom peoples,” Konrad Zuloaga insisted.

  “The hell it is!” Radu growled, his anger building once more. “It belongs to the five and one fifth of it is mine, as my father’s son. You are so noble sounding about the Rom people, but it is you who had the best opportunity to switch one of the playing cards – or even two! How do we know that eight of clubs is really old Cuza’s card?”